


The New Year Is Right In Front Of Us

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Barton Boys Are Bad At Feelings, Christmas, Feelstide 2013, First Time, M/M, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Feelstide 2013 for the prompt "High School AU: Clint is kind of a Scrooge when it comes to Christmas, Phil does his best to try and make it something special and magical for him any way that he can."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Year Is Right In Front Of Us

**Author's Note:**

> With massive thanks to [Foxxcub](http://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub) for audiencing this as I was writing it and to [chaneen](http://chaneen.livejournal.com/), as always, for the magnificent beta and Americanpick.

“Yeah, Dad’s insisting we take the jet to the house in Malibu, so Mom doesn’t complain about another cold Christmas. It’s going to be so boring,” says Tony Stark, who doesn’t have problems like other people’s.

“I think it’s nice,” Pepper says, stealing his coffee mug and cradling it in her hands.

They’re all sitting at one of the picnic benches outside the diner, because they’re all crazy people, and apparently Clint’s grateful enough to have friends that he’s prepared to be crazy with them.

“You could come?” Tony asks her, hopefully. “The parents wouldn’t mind. They wouldn’t even notice. We’ll tell them you’re a maid or something.”

Pepper narrows her eyes at him. “I’m going to accept that the invitation was meant romantically and then I’m going to pretend you didn’t say anything else,” she says.

Phil laughs silently, shaking against Clint’s side, thigh trembling against Clint’s. Clint lets himself put his hand on Phil’s knee, steadying it, which he figures is okay, the kind of thing anyone might do to their friends.

“What are you doing for the holidays?” Phil asks, under the sound of Tony protesting his innocence. 

Clint shrugs. “Not much.”

“Nothing?” Phil presses. He’s got his politely interested face on, which is one step better than his _focused_ interested face. When he gets that look, Clint finds himself telling him everything.

“Nah.” Clint tries to laugh it off. “Christmas kind of sucks. What’s even the point of it?”

“Family,” Steve says, leaning into their conversation. “Just being together. That’s the best part of the holidays.”

Clint smiles back, because he knows Steve means well. No one here knows how fucked up Clint’s family life is. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. Then, desperately, “What are you doing?”

“Oh.” Steve ducks his head and his cheeks go pink. It’s surprising, since Clint’s never seen Steve embarrassed before. “Bucky’s going to be home.”

“Bucky?” Clint asks, while everyone else starts laughing.

“You mean you haven’t heard about Wonder Boy Barnes?” Tony demands. “Steve, I’m shocked at you. You’ve known Barton how long now?”

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve says pleasantly, then to Clint, “Bucky’s my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Clint says and because everyone’s suddenly _looking_ at him, “Cool?” Everyone’s still looking at him. Bruce, tucked quietly on Tony’s other side like always, is starting to look anxious. “What?”

“Nothing,” Phil says, with a pointed look at the others.

“Did you think I was going to be a dick about that?” Clint asks slowly. Just because he never knows how to talk to people doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to read them. “Why would I be a dick?”

“Well you’re all…” Tony waves a hand. “You’re all jock-y.”

“Am I?” Clint laughs, disbelieving. He’s torn between wanting to be pissed that they’ve made assumptions about him and kind of stupidly pleased that they’ve thought about him at all.

“You are the only one of us who’s on a sports team,” Bruce offers, but he sounds apologetic.

Clint has never once mentioned his archery. He mostly doesn’t start conversations, when they all get together, unless someone talks to him directly. “Phil plays soccer.”

“Like that’s a real sport.” Tony snorts.

Calmly, Phil picks up the discarded end of his cheeseburger and throws it at Tony’s head. It hits him perfectly in the temple and he makes a disgusted and disgruntled noise.

“Sorry,” Steve says to Clint, and smiles. “Bucky’s in the army. They’re all kind of protective of him.” Whether he realises it or not, he sounds delighted about that.

“S’cool.” Clint shrugs. “How often do you see him?”

“Not since the summer,” Steve says, and now he looks less delighted. Clint fucking hates it when Steve looks sad; being the cause of it is like accidentally stepping on a puppy.

“Sucks,” Clint commiserates. He doesn’t know what else to say. He’s pleased that Steve’s looking forward to the holidays and that Tony’s got a vacation in the sun coming up, but it only emphasises how completely empty Clint’s own Christmas is going to be. Again.

***

Phil drops Clint off at his house and Clint escapes the car quick, before it gets awkward and he has to invite Phil in.

Once Phil’s driven off, Clint lets himself inside, checking to see if Barney’s home. He’s not.

He’s got homework he should be doing, but it’s Saturday and it’s nearly the holidays. He’ll do it later.

Instead, he goes into the living room and slumps down on their shitty couch, banging his head on the worn-through arm the way he always does. Their TV picks up three channel with any kind of decent picture, so it’s a choice between cooking shows, wedding dresses, and golf. He settles on cooking shows and decides never to move again.

He’s still stubbornly not moving when Barney comes home however many hours later. It’s gotten dark and Clint got cold enough to fetch a blanket from his bed, but that’s the only concession he’s made to moving.

“Fuck,” Barney says, when he trips over something - probably Clint’s shoes - in the hallway. He walks into the living room and flips on the lights. “What are you doing? Are you sick?”

He sounds sharp, but Clint knows why he’d be worried; they can’t afford for Clint to get sick.

Reluctantly, Clint sits up. “No, I’m okay. Just…” He shrugs. “Was work okay?”

“Work fucking sucked,” Barney says, turning his back on Clint and heading for the kitchen. Clint winces, waiting, suddenly realising what he’s forgotten. “The hell, Clint, you didn’t start dinner?”

“Sorry, shit.” Clint scrambles up. “Sorry.” He joins Barney in the kitchen, feeling really guilty when he finds Barney staring at the cold stove with a look of genuine disappointment on his face. “How about we get takeout?”

When Clint first moved in with Barney, they’d get takeout a couple times a week, sit in the middle of the living room floor, and talk about nothing for hours. They haven’t done that for years. 

Barney shakes his head, still looking pissed. “They started giving out free takeout?” he asks. “Or you want me to buy it out of the money I worked my ass off for today while you were lying around here, communing with your emo or whatever.”

“That’s not what I…” Clint trails off. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t think. I’ll start dinner now. You go take a shower, or whatever. It’ll be half an hour, tops. I promise.”

Barney stalks out, still shaking his head. 

Clint closes his eyes. He wishes shit didn’t cost money. That’d be great. Then Barney wouldn’t spend the weeks leading up to Christmas getting crankier and crankier. 

He pulls a couple of TV dinners out of the fridge, puts them in to warm, then turns and calmly punches the fridge door, hard.

It hurts, but Clint’s done this enough by now that he doesn’t break any knuckles. There are a lot of dents in this door, some from Clint, and some, a little higher, from Barney.

They’re real good at expressing their emotions in this house.

Barney comes downstairs just before dinner’s ready. He’s changed out of his work uniform, doesn’t smell like grease anymore. He sniffs the air and smiles once at Clint, nodding like all’s forgiven.

“Want a beer?” he asks, opening the fridge. 

“No, thanks,” Clint says. He knows that there are three bottles left in there and that they have to last until the end of next week. He grabs a glass from the draining board and fills it with water from the tap, instead.

Barney sighs. “You can have a fucking beer, kid.”

Clint makes himself smile at Barney, wrinkling his nose. “Beer’s gross,” he says. The timer on the oven beeps before Barney can call him a liar, so Clint spins around gratefully, resisting the urge to stick his head into the oven and pulling their dinner out instead.

It doesn’t look that appetising after Clint’s slopped it down onto two plates, but Barney starts wolfing it down, way before it’s cool enough.

“S’good,” he says around a mouthful, grinning at Clint like Clint did anything more than pierce the film and stick it in the oven. Actually, Clint’s not sure he did pierce the film. Yay, for it not exploding?

Barney finishes dinner before Clint’s more than halfway through his. Then he starts eyeing Clint’s plate, while pretending not to. 

“Hey,” Clint says, dropping his fork. “You want some of this? I’m stuffed.”

“You are?” Barney asks dubiously. “You sure?”

“Sure.” Clint pushes his plate over. “I had two burgers for lunch, man. Even I can’t eat that much.” The first part’s true. The second part, not so much, but whatever. It’s not like Clint’s going to waste away and Barney was the one working today.

“Who’d you have burgers with?” Barney asks. “That Stark kid?”

“Lots of people,” Clint says vaguely. Barney hates Clint hanging out with Tony, but Clint’s not totally sure why. Tony’s stupidly generous with his friends, and he extends that to random people who his friends drag along.

Barney opens his mouth like he’s going to start a fight. Then he stops and slumps a little in his chair. “Clint,” he says heavily. 

Clint feels his insides go cold, because this isn’t the _get less fancy friends_ tone. This is something else.

“I know we were talking about maybe getting a dog around the holidays,” Barney starts. 

“Right,” Clint says slowly. He knows where this is going. He knew it was never going to happen. “No, that’s cool. That’s fine. I told you, it was just a dumb idea I had.”

“I want to get you a fucking dog,” Barney snaps, then stops, blows out a breath. “But I was talking to Ted, down at the pet store, and they cost a fucking fortune.”

Clint nods. “Yeah, I know. It’s… yeah. Of course.”

“Maybe after New Years?” Barney says.

“Sure.” Clint smiles at him blankly, then gets to his feet. “You mind doing the dishes? I got homework.”

“Yeah.” Barney waves him away. He’s picked up his beer bottle and is holding it tight around the neck. “Yeah, that’s cool.”

Clint grabs his bag as he leaves, letting it bang against every step on the way upstairs. He shares a room with Barney, an ugly brown curtain strung up between their beds for privacy. They usually leave it open, but he drags it closed tonight, flopping down face first on his bed.

He lets himself have two minutes to breathe hard into his pillow, then sits up, pulls his school books out of his bag, and sets them up on the bed.

It doesn’t matter. It’s just a dog. He knew it was never going to happen. But then Barney started asking what he wanted for Christmas and Clint was stupid enough to tell him.

Stupid Christmas. Clint hates it. He doesn’t have expectations the rest of the year.

He picks up his math textbook, flipping to the problems they’re supposed to be working through. He’s okay at math, but that’s not really helpful right now, since it means he can do the homework and still brood.

He should start reading their assigned book for English. That’s annoying enough that it’ll probably distract him. 

His phone rings, which is another kind of distraction, so he grabs it up gratefully. It’s Phil. It’s always Phil or Natasha, and Natasha’s away at some gymnastics meet this weekend.

“Hey,” Clint says, happy that he sounds totally normal and not at all like he was having a minor breakdown a couple minutes ago. “What’s up?”

“Just thought I’d call to say hi,” Phil says. There’s no background noise, so Clint can’t figure out where he is. “And make sure you’re okay after earlier?”

“Earlier?” Clint asks. Is Phil psychic? Is he bugging Clint’s house?

Phil hums. “You’re were pretty quiet on the drive back. I figured Steve and Stark upset you, over the Bucky thing?”

“Oh! Shit, no, I forgot about that,” Clint says automatically, then wishes he hadn’t. Having people assume you were going to be a homophobe is a totally legitimate thing to be pissed about. He could have run with that as an excuse for being down.

“So… Is something else wrong?” Phil asks. Clint hears someone talking in the background, then Phil hisses something and the talking stops. “Sorry. My sister wanted to know who I was talking to.”

“You can go hang out with her,” Clint says. “I don’t mind.”

“She’s seven,” Phil says. “She wants to do One Direction karaoke all the time.”

Clint laughs. “Is that a thing you’ve done before?” he asks. “Can I watch next time?”

“Screw you,” Phil says, laughing. “Come on. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Clint hesitates. “I… No. It doesn’t matter.” Phil’s the best person Clint’s ever conned into being his friend, but you just don’t talk about stuff like this.

“If you tell me, I’ll let you come to Starbucks with me, tomorrow,” Phil says, startling a laugh out of Clint.

“ _Let_ me?” he asks. “You just can’t find anyone else to go get a dumb Christmas drink with you.”

“No, I haven’t asked anyone else,” Phil says. Clint doesn’t know how to feel about that. He makes a _what the fuck am I supposed to say to that?_ face at the ceiling. The ceiling doesn’t know either.

Phil doesn’t say anything else, which means it’s Clint’s turn. He chews on his lower lip for a while, while Phil waits silently.

“I just really hate Christmas,” Clint admits in a rush. “We’re kind of… we don’t have tons of spare cash and it’s tough on us.”

Phil makes a soft, sympathetic noise, which, yeah, Clint wasn’t expecting him to come up with any kind of solution for him. People never know what to say when they realise they have more money than you.

“That shouldn’t mean you have to hate Christmas,” Phil says eventually.

“Yeah, no, it really does.” Clint pulls his knees up to his chest; the cuffs of his pants are fraying and he twists the loose threads around his fingers. “Look, can we talk about something else? Did you see _Dog Cop_ s, last night?”

Phil hesitates, like he doesn’t want to let Clint get away with the subject change, but then he relents and says, “No, not yet. I downloaded it, but I haven’t had a chance to watch it.”

“Oh my god.” Clint waves a hand around, half in relief that they’re not talking about Christmas anymore and half because **_Dog Cops_**. “Do you have your laptop there with you? Watch it right now, I’ll be here to help you through the pain.”

“Pain?” asks Phil dubiously. “Okay, hang on, I’m getting my laptop.”

“Cool, I’ll be here.” Clint shifts against his pillows, feeling himself relax while Phil narrates his passage around his bedroom. This is more distracting than homework; this is good.

***

The last week before they break for the holidays crawls along. It’s not that Clint wants Christmas to come any sooner, but he’s looking forward to not being at school.

Tony gets suspended on the very last afternoon for making - and letting off - firecrackers in the science lab. No one’s too surprised that Bruce gets suspended too, especially not Bruce himself, who just shrugs and sighs philosophically.

“He’ll be in Malibu soon,” he says, like it’s a promise he’s been repeating to himself.

Tony slings his arm around Bruce’s shoulders and kisses him on the ear. “You love me. You’ll miss me. You’ll spend the whole week pining.”

“Yes,” Bruce says flatly. “I’m sure I will.”

“They’re not actually fucking, right?” Clint whispers in Phil’s ear.

Phil leans in closer, as though he doesn’t trust his own ability to whisper. His lips almost brush Clint’s cheek. Clint tries not to shiver. “No, because _that_ would make sense.”

Clint laughs, then forces himself to lean away from Phil’s warmth and the ridiculous temptation of his lips. 

“Hey,” Phil says. “You’re going to be around over the holidays, right?”

“Yep.” Clint manages to sound totally unconcerned about it. He’s very proud. 

Phil nods. “Good.” 

“Why?” Clint asks suspiciously.

“Because,” Phil says. His eyes are twinkling. Clint wants to be annoyed, but he’s too busy being charmed, damn it.

“Fine.” Clint throws up his hands. “Whatever. Don’t tell me. I don’t care.”

“What are you talking about?” Natasha asks, appearing out of nowhere and elbowing Clint in the side rather than saying hello like a decent human.

“It’s a secret,” Phil says primly, which makes Clint do a doubletake.

“Is it?” Clint asks. He wants to say _a real secret, for me?_ but that would sound stupid.

Phil smiles enigmatically. Natasha’s looking at them curiously: Clint, then Phil, then back again. Then she smiles too; Clint wishes he could read minds.

“Does everyone have a secret?” he demands. 

“Secrets?” Tony asks, propping his chin on Clint’s shoulder and digging it in. No one should have a face that pointy. “Who has a secret?”

For some reason, Phil looks a little bit panicky, so Clint’s relieved when Natasha says, “I do. And if you want to keep your kneecaps, you will not ask more.”

Tony’s close enough to Clint that Clint can actually feel him gulp. “If the secret is that you eat men for breakfast, then that one’s already out,” he says, then dances backwards like he’s expecting her to throw a poisoned dart at him.

“Oh, Stark,” she purrs. “I _want_ everyone to know that. It keeps them all in line.”

Clint catches Phil’s eye while Natasha and Stark snark at each other. Phil rolls his eyes and Clint grins, pleased that whatever Phil’s secret is, Clint (and Natasha) are still the only ones who know about it.

***

Clint works two jobs and he picks up extra hours at both as soon as Christmas vacation starts. With Barney working three, they barely see each other.

Occasionally, Clint will crack open an eye and watch Barney stumble out at five a.m. for his construction job, or they’ll both flop down on the couch to stare blankly at infomercials at midnight, but neither of them mentions anything about setting up a tree or doing anything in particular on the twenty-fifth.

Clint’s working so hard that he almost forgets about Phil’s secret, until he gets a text, leaping bright onto his phone at eight in the morning on Clint’s only day off that week.

_Pick you up at 11 :)_

_For what?_ Clint texts back, taking four tries to turn the letters into words.

 _You’ll see_ , Phil replies. _Get some sleep x_

Clint spends maybe a little too long obsessing over that little x, but he really is exhausted, so he falls back to sleep before too long, clutching his phone in his fist.

***

“How did you know I was free today?” Clint asks, sliding into the passenger seat of Phil’s car.

“I asked Natasha,” Phil says, handing Clint a full red Starbucks cup. 

“I, yeah. I’m not going to ask how she knew.” Clint pops the lid off the coffee and breathes it in. “Mocha?”

“Salted caramel mocha,” Phil says, putting the car in gear. Clint makes a face, which Phil somehow manages to notice without looking at him. “Just try it.”

Because Clint hasn’t had any coffee today, he tries it. Then he moans, which he totally didn’t mean to do. Who moans over coffee? (Well, Tony does, but who wants to be Tony?)

“Good?” Phil asks, shooting Clint a quick look and smirking.

“Really good.” Clint drinks some more, confused because he never likes the flavoured coffee shit that Phil loves. “Thanks.”

“I always think it tastes like liquid Christmas,” Phil says easily. He pulls up to a stop light and puts on his signal to turn right, taking them downtown.

“Where are we going?” Clint asks, drumming his hands on the dashboard.

“Do you really want to know?” Phil asks. “Or do you trust me?”

Clint snorts. “Well that’s just a shitty thing to ask someone,” he complains. He leans back in his chair and waves Phil on. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you abduct me.”

“Good,” Phil says, and smiles.

***

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Clint says, stopping and staring.

“Nope.” Phil grins and catches Clint by the sleeve, tugging him forward. 

“Ice skating?” Clint demands, planting his heels. “Do I look like a penguin, Coulson?”

Phil looks him up and down slowly. Clint knows he’s teasing, but it still makes Clint feel hot all over. “Not right now,” he says. He keeps tugging on Clint’s sleeve, and Clint lets himself be led down the steps to the ice, even though he has a feeling this is going to be terrible.

They get in line behind a couple of kids, who are bouncing on the spot, chatting excitedly about the ice. Clint doesn’t really know how to deal with excitable little kids, but Phil just smiles indulgently when one of them jumps up and down and lands on his foot.

“No using that as an excuse when you fall down on the ice,” Clint says.

“Oh really?” Phil arches an eyebrow at him. “Suddenly you’re all cocky?”

Clint shrugs one shoulder. If he’s got to embarrass himself doing something this hokey, he’s at least going to be competitive about it. “I’m from the Midwest; we’re born knowing how to skate.”

“Really?” Phil’s tone changes, becoming more serious. “Really? That’s where you’re from?”

“Uh, yeah. Iowa?” Clint doesn’t know why he makes that a question. He’s definitely from there and it’s not like he needs to check to see if Phil’s heard of it.

The line shifts forward and they move with it, but Phil’s attention doesn’t waver from Clint. “What made your family move east?”

“God.” Clint laughs, doesn’t actually have to fake it, because thinking about explaining all _that_ shit, while they’re standing right here, is funny all of a sudden. “Like, a million reasons. Mostly I think because the east coast’s not Iowa.” He hesitates, but they’ll be skating in a minute; it’s not like Phil will have time to quiz him, and he does have to get this out eventually. “And it’s not my family; it’s just me and my brother.”

“I didn’t know that,” Phil says. At least he doesn’t say _I’m sorry_. Clint hates the sorries. 

“Nah, well.” Clint grins at him. “I never told you.”

The family with the kids finishes buying their tickets and then it’s Phil and Clint’s turn. 

“Two, please,” Phil says, then slides over the money before Clint can get his wallet out.

The kid behind the counter gives Phil the tickets, and Clint follows him over to the place where they pick up their skates, trying to shove a ten dollar bill into his hand.

“It’s my treat,” Phil says, refusing to take it.

Clint pulls up short, nearly losing an eye to a skate that’s hanging around the back of someone's neck by its laces. “No way, dude. I can pay.”

Phil leans his elbows on the bar, waiting for the guy handing out the skates to notice him. “I know you can pay,” he says. “But it’s my treat.” 

“That’s not - ” Clint starts.

Phil turns around, looking straight at Clint. “One,” he says, “this is supposed to be a nice thing for you. It’d be a pretty crappy nice thing, if it made you worry about the cost.”

Clint blinks. He wants to get offended but he just… doesn’t feel it. In fact, he feels kind of moved, which is so fucking stupid. “You don’t have to,” he manages, around the lump in his throat.

Phil just smiles. It would be better for Clint’s state of mind, if Phil had a slightly less gorgeous smile. 

“What was the second thing?” Clint asks, when the pause is just long enough to be awkward.

Phil’s smile doesn’t dim, but Clint gets the feeling he’s keeping it up through force of effort. “I asked you out,” he says. “I have to pay. It’s in the rule book.”

“There’s a rule book?” Clint asks rather than _asked me out? like a date or like a…_ What else do people ask people to go on? Are friend dates a thing?

“What size?” The guy behind the counter has finally gotten to them, derailing Clint’s spiral of confusion.

By the time they’ve laced up their skates, it’s too late for Clint to casually ask exactly what they’re doing here. And then they’re heading onto the ice and he’s distracted by how it’s _really fucking cold_ out here.

Phil steps down onto the ice first, one hand gripping the handrail and the other held out for Clint.

“I can do it,” Clint says, but he takes Phil’s hand anyway, since how many opportunities does he get for that?

The ice slides under Clint’s feet, but it’s not that hard to stay upright. He turns cautiously, accidentally breaking contact between their hands, and waits to see if he suddenly does the splits or something. When he doesn’t, he grins at Phil and takes a careful step forward, then another.

“Huh. This isn’t too bad,” he tells Phil, who’s keeping pace beside him.

Phil smiles and takes Clint’s hand again. At Clint’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs. “Just so you don’t get ambitious and sail off without me,” he says.

There’s Christmas music playing over the tinny loudspeakers, so Clint has to raise his voice a little. “You just want me to make sure you stay on your feet,” he says. 

He’s really getting the hang of this; maybe being from Iowa is finally good for something. (Although, if ice skating is in his blood, he’ll be shocked. He can’t imagine either of his parents doing anything fun.)

“I can stay on my feet, Barton,” Phils says. He shakes his hand free of Clint’s, which is the opposite of what Clint wanted. “Race you around the rink?”

“Wait, are we allowed to - ?” Clint starts to ask, but Phil’s already taken off, so Clint flounders for a second then shoves off with his front leg and suddenly he’s _flying_ across the ice.

Phil wins the race, because he knows how to swerve around people, which Clint hasn’t worked out yet. It turns out that Clint doesn’t actually know how to stop either. He crashes half into the barrier and half into Phil, who wraps an arm around him, dragging Clint into his side and cushioning the rest of the impact.

Clint gasps into Phil’s neck, breathless with laughter, gripping Phil’s coat and not even remembering to feel weird about it.

“Enjoying yourself?” Phil asks, pulling back and grinning at Clint.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Clint says, but his cheeks feel stretched with laughter and he knows Phil isn’t fooled.

“Good,” Phil says. “Want to learn how to go backward?”

“Hell yes,” Clint says and lets Phil turn him around on the spot, hands warm and firm on Clint’s hips.

***

Clint aches everywhere by the time he gets home that night, but it’s a good sort of pain. He’s stuck with archery through everything, but he doesn’t play any other sports like he used to.

He remembers loving track, back in Iowa when he lived with the Morrisons, but that was a whole different lifetime ago and he doesn’t think about it much anymore.

The way his muscles are stretched and throbbing right now reminds him of that. Of being good at something.

“You’re smiling,” Barney tells him suspiciously, over late night reheated mac and cheese in front of the TV.

“Nope,” Clint says, filling his face with pasta, since you can’t chew and smile at the same time. Well, you can, but that’s how tongues get bitten.

Barney leans over and pokes Clint in the cheek with a slightly jagged fingernail. “That’s a fucking dimple. What gives?”

Clint shrugs. “Can’t I be in a good mood?” He’s in a stupidly good mood; it’s kind of embarrassing.

“Sure, sure,” Barney says quickly. He eats some more food then says, “S’nice,” around the tines of his fork.

Clint raises his eyebrows at him.

Barney shrugs. “Seeing you happy,” he mumbles then goes back to staring fixedly at the TV.

***

Clint’s good mood doesn’t last long. He works the nightshift at the local grocery store on Wednesdays, and it’s a nightmare of screaming babies, screaming couples, and creeps who need booze, porn, and condoms at one a.m.

His supervisor sends him out to collect the shopping carts on the hour, every hour, even though it starts to snow around two and doesn’t let up.

He texts Phil on his break, just a quick _Had fun yesterday!_ but Phil hasn’t replied by the time Clint packs up to go home. It’s super dumb to be disappointed by that, since it’s the middle of the night and Phil is probably asleep like all other reasonable people.

Still. Clint texts a string of sadfaces at Natasha, just because, and feels a little better.

She calls him while he’s riding the bus home, his ring tone blaring obscenely loud in the early dawn quiet. There’s hardly anyone to disturb, but Clint still feels like he should apologise to someone.

“Hey, why are you awake?” he asks, half-whispering.

“Because someone texted me in the middle of the night,” Natasha says, like that’s obvious. Then, “What’s wrong? What did you do?”

“What, no, nothing.” Clint wants to put his feet up onto the seat opposite, but his shoes are muddy and covered in slush, so he doesn’t. “I was just being emo. You didn’t have to wake up or anything.”

Natasha hums, not sounding like she believes him. Clint guesses that if she believed him when he said shit like that, she wouldn’t be his best friend. 

“Can I come see you?” he asks. She lives on the same route they do. If he rides a couple more stops downtown, he could be there in a half hour. 

“Of course,” Natasha says, rather than pointing out how late (or early) it is. “I’ll make breakfast.”

Clint tips his head back against the seat cushion and smiles. Natasha doesn’t like to admit that she can cook, but her breakfasts are amazing.

***

Clint’s had a key to Natasha’s house for a couple years now. He’s probably not supposed to have one, but no one’s asked him to give it back, so he’s kept it.

It’s useful for sneaking in at six in the morning and heading straight up the stairs to her bedroom (which is probably why he’s not supposed to have one, but whatever. He’s definitely not having sex with Natasha).

She’s curled up on one side of her mattress, comforter wrapped around herself like a burrito.

“I thought you promised me breakfast,” he whispers, kicking off his shoes.

“Not _yet_ ,” she whispers back, and throws half her comforter over him when he lies down.

“Cool,” Clint says, and then he’s asleep between one blink and the next.

***

When he wakes up, it’s light, if not exactly bright. The sky’s an off-white sort of grey colour, which tells him nothing about what time of day it is.

He tries to roll over, content to go back to sleep, but something falls off his stomach and hits the mattress with a muted thump.

It’s his cell phone. Someone apparently left it on him while he slept. That’s kind of worrying, since _someone_ also knows his pin code and could have caused all sorts of havoc while he was out.

Rolling over, Clint scrolls through to messages and breathes out in relief when there are no new ones typed by Natasha. There are three new ones from Phil though.

_Sorry, I was sleeping. I had a good time too. Breakfast?_

_I went by your house but your brother says you’re not home._

_He didn’t seem too worried, so I’m guessing you haven’t been abducted?_

Then a fourth comes in, while Clint’s grinning down at his phone.

_I’m going to stop now. Sorry. Good morning._

Clint laughs aloud, stupidly delighted in that way that only Phil makes him feel. He hovers his fingers over the keyboard for a second, before he makes himself send a message back.

_At Natasha’s. She’s making pancakes. Come hang out with us?_

_Okay :)_ Phil replies. Which, okay, Clint invited him, but he didn’t think he’d actually come. 

Clint rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. He splashes his face and steals Natasha’s toothbrush, and then also steals her deodorant when he can’t find anything more manly smelling.

He sniffs himself curiously under the arm. Huh, wild freesia smells good on him, apparently.

***

Natasha’s downstairs in the kitchen, making coffee and humming to herself. She’s wearing sweats and a tanktop, hair pulled up into a messy bun, and it’s times like this when Clint would love to be in love with her. They’d run away together and have the coolest life, he’s sure of it.

Then she turns around, shaking her head at his bed hair, and he remembers that they’d kill each other within hours.

“You’re up,” she says, sounding surprised. “I thought I’d have to drag you by the toenails.”

“Ew,” Clint says. “Also, ow. Also, I accidentally invited Phil over for breakfast. That’s okay, right?”

Natasha raises one eyebrow, looking surprised. “Phil again?” she asks.

Clint slides into one of the chairs around her breakfast table so he has an excuse not to look at her, when he says, “What’s that mean?”

She sits down opposite him. She’s holding a full cup of coffee, which he’s pretty sure is for him, but she’s not handing it over. “It means Phil? Again?”

“What’s wrong with Phil?” Clint demands, more defensive than he should be.

Natasha shakes her head. “Nothing. Phil’s great. Are you dating him, now?”

“I…” Clint drops his head into his hands and groans. “I don’t think so.”

“But you want to?” She kicks him under the table. He doesn’t know why; he was already going to answer her.

He peeks at her through his fingers. “Yes?”

He’s not expecting the smile he gets in response. It doesn’t seem like it’s mocking at all. “Good,” she says, and finally hands over the coffee.

“So he can come for breakfast?” Clint checks. Don’t assume things around Natasha; she’ll make you pay, if you’re wrong.

“Like I’m going to disappoint Coulson,” Natasha says, rolling her eyes. 

She turns her back on Clint and heads for the fridge, completely ignoring Clint’s outraged, “What about disappointing _me_?”

***

Phil turns up right when the pancakes are ready, because he has magic powers like that. He greets Natasha with a kiss on the cheek - and she doesn’t smack him - and flashes Clint a smile while taking his coat off.

His cheeks are pink from being outside in the cold and there’s snow in his hair. 

“You need a hat,” Clint hears himself say, then wants to sink down under the table and pretend he’s died.

Behind Phil, Natasha makes a despairing face, but Phil nods like Clint’s made a good point, not an inane one. 

“I do. But my aunt’s knitting me one for Christmas, and I have to at least pretend to wear that one before I ‘lose’ it.” He makes actual finger quotes around _lose_ , which is charming. Fuck.

“That’s, um.” Clint flounders around for something to say. He needs more sleep than he got to deal with this. “‘Tasha made pancakes.”

“I can see.” Phil sits down next to Clint, bumping their ankles together. “Are you sure there are enough for me, Natasha?”

Natasha flips pancakes onto a plate and drops the stack in the middle of the table. “There are enough for Clint and Clint’s second stomach. There are enough for you, if he wants to share with you.”

“Don’t make me sound like a pig,” Clint protests, and pointedly shovels half the pancakes onto a plate for Phil.

“What about Natasha?” Phil asks, eyeing his pancakes, while Clint just dives straight in. Clint, in his defence, has been hungry since about four o’clock this morning.

“I’m having muesli,” Natasha tells him, saving Clint the trouble of doing so. 

Phil looks like he wants to ask why they’re having pancakes, then, but he doesn’t. Clint’s glad. He’s never sure why Natasha, who doesn’t do nice things for anyone, sometimes does nice things for him.

“Are you going to the party?” Phil asks, after some peaceful pancake-eating.

“Party?” Clint asks at the same time that Natasha says, “Do we have a choice?”

Phil smiles at Natasha. “I think _you_ always have a choice. The rest of us, not so much.” To Clint, he adds, “Steve’s holiday party. It’s become kind of a tradition.”

“Oh, right.” Clint nods. “Cool.”

Natasha huffs at him. “You’re invited. Idiot.”

Phil frowns. “Yes, of course. Of course you are. Sorry, I thought you’d know that.”

Clint shrugs. “S’no big deal. When is it?”

Phil slides one of his pancakes over onto Clint’s plate, like he feels he needs to make up for something. He really doesn’t. Clint never has time to go to parties; he’s turned down enough invitations that Steve probably just gave up on him.

“Tonight. Are you free?”

Clint’s working tonight. He shouldn’t feel disappointed, but he kind of does. “No, shit, sorry.”

“It’ll go on late,” Natasha tells him. “Come by after work.” Clint must look dubious, because she presses. “This is _Steve_ , remember. It’s not a party like you’re thinking. It’s mostly sitting around in holiday sweaters, drinking mulled eggnog and playing board games.”

“Lame,” Clint says rolling his eyes, even though that actually sounds pretty great. “I guess I can try and make it.”

“Good,” Phil says, smiling at him, which is great. Now Clint _has_ to make it.

***

Clint gets to Steve’s grandmother’s house just after ten. The door is flung open by a big blond guy who Clint doesn’t know, who’s wearing a sweater with a reindeer on it and a party crown on his head.

“Greetings,” he says, and shakes Clint’s hand enthusiastically.

“Um, hi?” Clint says. He kind of thought he knew all Steve’s friends. “I’m Clint.”

“Clint,” Big Hot and Blond booms, like that pleases him. “I’m Thor.” He starts to drag Clint toward the living room, still gripping his hand. “I am a friend of Steve’s from his life drawing class.”

“Yep,” Tony pipes up from somewhere near the kitchen. “Steve draws him like one his French girls.”

Thor frowns. “I do not understand,” he confesses to Clint at the same time that a new voice says, “Hey, _what_?”

Clint turns and finds another new guy sprawled on Steve’s couch. His dark hair’s buzzed short and his eyebrows are raised at Steve, who’s sitting at his feet, a board game set up on the carpet in front of him. 

“Tony,” Steve sighs. “That’s not how life modelling works.”

“Good.” The guy who’s got to be Steve’s Bucky huffs, and ruffles Steve’s hair. “I thought I was your only Kate Winslet, Rogers.”

Steve blushes and shrugs him off. “Now look what you’ve done,” he says, still talking to Tony. He rolls to his feet, coming over to greet Clint. “Sorry. They’re all a nightmare. How are you?”

“I’m good.” Clint shoves the bag of chips he brought at Steve, because you can’t show up for a party empty handed. “Sorry I’m late.”

Steve waves that away. “I’m just really pleased you could make it,” he says, all earnest and serious. 

Clint doesn’t know what to say back. “Well, Natasha and Phil kind of made me promise.” He looks around, hoping he doesn’t look desperately awkward. “Where are they?”

Steve doesn’t seem offended, which is good. Possibly he’s used to Clint’s total failure at ever being able to make smalltalk. “Natasha and Bruce went out to do a pizza run, but Phil’s around somewhere.”

“He’s nogging eggs.” Bucky has appeared at Steve’s elbow. He slings an arm around Steve’s waist and offers his other hand to Clint. “Bucky Barnes.”

“I guessed,” Clint says, shaking hands. He’s doing a lot of shaking hands tonight. No one told him this party was going to be full of new people. “I mean, good to meet you.”

Bucky grins at him. Up close, he’s really hot, despite the unfortunate hair, and his eyes sparkle wickedly. “It’s _great_ to meet me, buddy,” he says, with a wink. “C’mon, let’s go see what’s taking Phil so long. I need booze.”

“Bucky - ” Steve starts but Bucky twists, pulling Steve around with him, and plants a long, hard kiss on his mouth. Steve’s not protesting by the time they’re done.

“Um,” Clint says, belatedly averting his eyes. But by then, Bucky’s untangled from Steve and is clapping Clint on the shoulder, nudging him toward the kitchen.

“So what’s your story?” he asks when they’re in the hallway. Steve’s grandma’s house isn’t big, but the hallways are narrow and twisty, so Bucky’s got Clint more or less held hostage until they reach the kitchen.

“Story?” Clint asks, frowning.

“Sure.” Bucky’s pretty free with the grins, Clint’s noticed, but some of them are sharper than others, kind of like Natasha’s, like they’re trying to see inside you. “I go to Basic, you’re that kid in Steve’s math class who he’s mentioned maybe once, I come back, you’re here and Stark’s taking bets on when you’re going to start screwing Coulson.”

Clint stops so suddenly, he trips over his own shoe. He flails for a second, caught off guard. He’s not usually clumsy. “He’s… He’s not seriously doing that, is he?” At Bucky’s look, he groans. “Does Phil know?”

Bucky squeezes his shoulder, marches him onward again. “If Phil knew, Stark would be hog-tied in the laundry room by now.”

“If Phil knew what?” Phil asks, looking up from the stove. Then he sees Clint and his little half-smile widens into a wider one. Clint’s sure he’s not imagining that. “Hi. You made it!”

“Yeah, I… did.” Wow, Clint’s so smooth. He was better at this when he had ice under his feet and the possibility of maybe falling down and breaking something important to distract him.

Bucky makes a sound like a swallowed down laugh and slides around Phil, sticking his face into the pan until he’s almost nose to nose with the creamy white eggnog simmering there. “This done?” he asks.

“Yes.” Phil smiles at Clint again. “I really am glad you’re here,” he says, then leaves him to go and nudge Bucky out of the way. “Barnes. You’re going to burn your nose. How would you explain that when you go back to Basic?”

“Tragic training accident,” Bucky says, but he does step back. His cheeks are pink and a little damp from the steam. “Got glasses?”

“Couldn’t find them,” Phil says. “I think Mrs Rogers has been moving stuff again.”

Bucky laughs. “Yep, she does that. They’re… ah, here they are.” He opens a cupboard that Clint thought was the fridge and starts setting glasses down on the counter, while Phil ladles eggnog into them.

Clint hangs back and watches. They’re so easy and familiar around each other and around Steve’s kitchen. He’s never had that. He doesn’t even feel totally at ease in his own house. They’ve lived there over a year now, but it still feels like some angry landlord is going to arrive one day and kick them out.

“Clint, make yourself useful,” Bucky says, and shoves two glasses into Clint’s hands. “Those two are for Stark and Pepper.”

“Why them first?” Clint asks. The drinks are hot through the glass, thawing his fingertips, where they were still numb from outside.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You want to put up with Stark’s bitching, if we don’t? Steve’ll get on his high horse and then they’ll bicker all night. It’s funny sometimes, but I’ve been up since four.” 

“Fair enough.” Clint nods at him, then lingers, hoping Phil will look back at him. But Phil’s busy making sure every glass has exactly the same amount of eggnog, so Clint makes himself leave the kitchen, weaving back into the living room and depositing the drinks where he was told to.

Once everyone has drinks, and Natasha and Bruce have returned with enough pizza to feed their whole school, not just the nine of them, Steve claps his hands together.

“Guys,” he says, “I just want to say something real quick.”

“Oh my god, really?” Tony groans. “Can’t we just play board games and get tipsy like the sixty year old grandmothers you and Barnes aspire to be? I’ve got a plane to catch in the morning; I plan to still be drunk for it.”

“Shush, Tony,” Bruce says, before anyone else can, and Tony miraculously does. 

“Thank you,” Steve says. He raises his glass. “I know you’re all cringing inside about how embarrassing I’m being.” He smiles and it’s impossible not to smile back. “But I just wanted to say thank you all for being here, and Happy Holidays. To friends.”

God. It is embarrassing, but it’s also kind of charming.

Clint half-raises his glass, wondering who he can clink glasses with. A glass appears out of nowhere, clicking against Clint’s, and Clint looks over to see that Phil has materialised beside him, as though by magic.

“Having an okay time?” Phil asks softly, under the sounds of everyone else gently mocking Steve but still wishing him happy holidays.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Clint says. He ducks his head. “Thanks for making me come.”

Phil nudges him gently in the side. “You can thank me by being on my team when we play Pictionary later.”

“Seriously?” Clint’s eyebrows shoot up. “I cannot draw.”

Phil laughs. “No, Steve’s the only one here who can draw. The rest of us just battle for second place with squiggles and stickmen.”

Clint grins, relaxing. “Cool, okay. Squiggles and stickmen, I can totally do.”

“Excellent,” Phil says. He smiles at Clint and Clint smiles back. Their eyes are locked and it’s terrifying. Clint wants to look away but he can’t think of anywhere he’d rather look than at Phil.

“Oh my god,” someone complains, and then a party hat comes whizzing out of nowhere and hits Clint on the nose.

He has the good grace to laugh, since yeah, he was being kind of ridiculous. His cheeks are burning when he finally breaks eye contact and focuses on throwing the hat back at Natasha instead.

***

It turns out that ‘squiggles and stickmen’ are a bit of an underestimation of exactly how competitive this group of people can get.

Steve and Bucky win most rounds easily, through what looks like a combination of Steve’s superior drawing skills and an ability to read each other’s minds. But Pepper and Tony’s team and the Natasha-Bruce-Thor trio seem to be wrapped up in a death match for second place.

Phil mostly leans back against the couch and watches. At least, he does until it’s his and Clint’s turn, and then he’s suddenly super focused on doing his very best to figure out what Clint’s blotches, dots, and crossings out are supposed to be.

Clint’s a terrible artist. He’s way better at… well, anything else.

Still, Phil doesn’t get mad at him. He shakes his head and laughs when Clint admits that what he thought was a roller skating banana was actually Sonic the Hedgehog.

“Starting to regret having me on your team?” Clint asks, leaning in close while Natasha starts to draw and Thor guesses things like _kumkwat, beetle,_ and _flux capacitor._ (Okay the last one comes from Bruce. Clint isn’t shocked.)

“Never,” Phil says, low and serious. He shifts slightly and then his hand moves to cover Clint’s where it’s resting on the floor.

Clint looks down. Phil’s hand is only slightly smaller than his, and it’s warm and a little sweaty, fingertips resting in the dips between Clint’s fingers.

“Is this okay?” Phil asks.

When Clint glances up at him, he’s biting his bottom lip, just slightly, just enough to show that he’s nervous.

Clint’s heart squeezes and his stomach aches in a sudden, not totally unpleasant way. “Yeah,” he says, “Yes. Of course.”

Phil’s doesn’t so much smile as glow. If Clint hadn’t already been one hundred percent on board with any hand-holding plan, he is now. 

*

The party winds down around two. Tony is half-sleeping against Pepper’s chest, half making out with the side of her face, which she seems to find equal parts charming and confusing, and Bucky is all the way unconscious, sprawled across the couch, with his hand resting limply against Steve’s thigh.

“I told you it wouldn’t be the usual sort of party,” Natasha says, as she and Clint are putting on their coats in the hallway.

“And you were right,” Clint agrees, shaking his head. They’d played Settlers of Catan for two solid hours. Clint now knew more ‘have you got any wood?’ jokes than even he had ever heard before.

Natasha smiles at him, small and a little teasing. “It was fun though, right?”

Clint wants to make a joke, but she’s right. It was fun. “Yeah, it was. Thanks.” 

She shrugs. “Have to prise you out of your hermit-like ways sometimes.” She leans in closer. “And did I see you getting cosy with Phil, earlier?”

Phil had snuck in close and touched Clint’s hand or squeezed his wrist about a thousand times, tonight. Clint wonders which times Natasha noticed.

“Maybe,” he says. He still doesn’t know what it means, though he smart enough to guess that it probably means something good. “He’s… yeah.”

“He’s into you,” Natasha says, then huffs. “And I can’t believe you just made me use the words _into you_. I sounded like a Valley Girl.”

“A scary, Russian Valley Girl,” Clint says, leaning into her. 

She spreads her hands, shrugging demurely. “Well, of course.”

Someone clears their throat behind Clint, and Clint turns to find Phil, looking kind of awkward. “Hi,” he says.

“I’m going to say goodnight to Steve,” Natasha says, because Natasha has tact. 

She slides around Clint and does something that looks like she’s poking Phil in the ribs. He stands up straighter, shoulders drawing back into something less hesitant.

“Hi,” Clint says, belatedly, to Phil.

Phil steps closer into his space, one hand coming up to touch Clint’s forearm. Clint’s winter coat is pretty thick, but he still imagines he can feel the heat from Phil’s fingers.

“I was going to offer you a ride home,” he says, “but maybe you’re going with Natasha?”

Clint shakes his head. “I think she’s going with Bruce. I mean, I think we were both going with Bruce, but if I have a better offer?” He tries not to look hopeful. Then he wonders why the hell not and tries to look doubly hopeful, instead.

Phil hums, sounding pleased, and leans in closer still. “I’m a better offer than Bruce?” he asks. He’s close enough that Clint can feel the tail end of Phil’s breath on his lips, cool instead of warm.

“Yeah, I.” Clint can’t remember the last time he wanted someone to kiss him this much. He feels like everything would be okay forever, if he had Phil’s mouth on his. “I mean, I don’t think Bruce wants to kiss me, so.”

He flutters his eyelashes, making Phil laugh.

“I hope he doesn’t,” Phil agrees and leans in, closing the gap.

Phil’s lips are warm and dry. They’re a little chapped and they taste like eggnog and candy canes. Clint doesn’t like Christmas, but he’s okay, apparently, with tasting it from Phil’s mouth.

He lifts his hand and puts it on Phil’s chest, curling his fingers a little in Phil’s sweatshirt, and Phil hitches a breath, pressing closer. There’s no tongues in this kiss, just Clint’s lips moving against Phil’s, but it’s still hottest thing Clint’s ever felt. He wants to melt backwards, pull Phil down with him.

Phil slides an arm around Clint’s waist, drawing him nearer until Clint’s hip bone aligns with Phil’s. Phil’s hand is stroking slowly over the small of Clint’s back. Clint feels taken care of.

 _I don’t want this to end_ , Clint thinks, which of course, is exactly when his cell phone starts to ring.

For a second, Clint freezes, wondering if he can just ignore it so it’ll go away. He doesn’t want this bubble they’re in to break. 

"You should answer it," Phil says. He sounds regretful, which makes Clint feel better about life, the universe, the shittiness of his cell phone's timing.

"Yeah, what if I really don't want to?" Clint asks, pulling his phone out anyway.

"Then I'll take that as a compliment," Phil says. He leans in and kisses Clint on the cheek, while Clint's checking the display on his phone.

It's Barney. At two a.m. This definitely isn't going to be good.

"Yeah?" he asks, answering right when the call's about to go to voicemail.

"This Clint?" demands a voice that isn't Barney's.

Clint stands up straight. He doesn't know what his face looks like, but Phil immediately grips his hand, squeezing.

"Yes," Clint says. "Barney okay?" What he means is _Is Barney dead? Please don't let Barney be dead._

The guy snorts, which actually makes Clint feel better, even though his heart is still racing. "As long as okay means drunk off his ass," he says. He doesn't sound amused. "You gotta come pick him up. I don't want him."

Fuck. Clint rubs the centre of his forehead. "Where?" he asks, suddenly exhausted in a way that's got nothing to do with it being late at night and everything to do with Barney. Barney doesn't get drunk. He drinks, sure, but he got drunk maybe once when Clint was younger and Clint freaked the fuck out at him. He doesn't do it anymore.

The guy says he'll text Clint the address, then hangs up on him. A moment later, an address all the way on the other side of the city flashes up onto Clint's screen. Shit fuck. It's going to cost a fucking fortune to get a cab back from there tonight.

"What?" Phil asks, "What's wrong?" From his tone, this isn't the first time he's said it. 

Clint shakes his head. Phil's a lovely guy and he does seem to give some sort of a damn about Clint, but that doesn't mean he needs, or wants, to be saddled with Clint's family drama. "Nothing. Family stuff. I'll take care of it." He tries and fails to smile. "Thanks for the offer of the ride though. I would have liked that."

"Offer still stands," Phil says. "Do you need me to take you somewhere?"

"No," Clint says. He makes himself sound firm, like he wouldn't love Phil there to help him wrangle Barney. Except, wait, he wouldn't like that at all. That would be a terrible impression to make, especially now he's somehow conned Phil into wanting to kiss him. "I'm good," he says, "but thanks."

He ducks around Phil, before Phil can argue, sticking his head in the living room to say goodnight to Steve. Just because he's got to trek miles for his idiot brother doesn't mean he's going to rush. Barney can fucking stew for a while for all Clint cares.

Clint finds Natasha talking softly to a very sleepy-looking Bucky and Steve, while they clear away mugs from the coffee table. "Hey, thanks man," Clint says. "I gotta head off."

Steve puts the mugs down again and comes over, wrapping Clint up in a quick, backslapping hug that Clint was seriously not expecting. "It was good to have you here," he says. "I hope you'll come next time, too."

"Sure, yeah, I'd..." Clint's been in a good mood all night. That's gone now, but he manages to rake up what he hopes it a pretty convincing smile. "That'd be good."

Steve grins suddenly, looking surprisingly wicked. Maybe he got it from Bucky. "I won't tell Tony he won his bet, if you don't want me to."

"Bet?" Clint starts to ask, then remembers what Bucky said about Tony starting a betting pool on him and Phil. He blushes, tries not to, but that only makes it worse. "Oh god, you saw?"

"I did." Steve slaps him on the shoulder. "I'm real pleased for you."

God, Clint's got to get out of here. Phil's never going to want a second go at making out with him, if Clint sticks around long enough for Phil to know where he's going. And now it looks like not only is Clint invested in this thing between them, so are all of their friends. So no pressure, or anything.

"Thanks, man. Good night." He backtracks fast out of the room, barely hearing everyone call their goodbyes.

***

As soon as Clint's standing on the doorstep, wind whipping through his coat and gross wet snow splashing in his face, he wishes he hadn't run away, wishes Phil had fought him a little harder. But then, if Phil had argued, Clint would probably have gotten pissed at that too.

He trudges down the path and out onto the sidewalk. Steve doesn't live in a really busy area, but there's a bus stop four blocks down. It's how Clint got here, and he knows there'll be buses to somewhere, even at this time of night. He's got no idea how he's going to get to Barney, but maybe the bus driver will be able to help him.

The bus stop is deserted. Clint wraps his arms around himself and shivers, waiting. His feet go numb almost instantly, his fingertips following shortly after. His eyes start to sting from the wind and snow and the skin of his cheeks feel tight. He's so very much not a fan of winter. Winter is the worst.

After five miserable minutes, a car pulls up at the bus stop and honks its horn. Clint looks up, about to flip off whatever asshole is curb crawling him, only to find Phil peering out the driver's side window at him, looking worried. 

"I promise to respect your decision," Phil calls over the sound of the wind. "But please let me ask you one more time, if you're sure you don't need a ride?"

"Fuck," Clint whispers to himself. To Phil he says, "Can you drive me to the bus station? That's all I need. Just like, drop me on the corner or whatever." 

"Of course," Phil says, sounding much happier. He throws open the passenger door and Clint makes a run for it, getting instantly wetter and colder as soon as he's out of the shade of the bus stop. 

He slides into the seat next to Phil, the warmth from the car's heater almost too much at first. 

“So, hi,” Phil says, and raises an eyebrow at him.

Sadly for Clint’s self-image as a hard guy, he crumbles immediately. “My brother’s gotten stranded without a ride,” he says. “It’s no big deal, don’t worry.”

“So what’s your plan?” Phil asks. A bus draws up behind them, honking its horn, so he eases the car back into drive, slipping smoothly into the sparse traffic. “Get the bus up there, then a cab back? That’ll take you most of the night.”

Clint shrugs. “It’s fine. There’s a station down the block, right? Just drop me there.”

Phil looks like he’s having some sort of internal struggle. “I’ll feel incredibly ungallant,” he says at last, “if you make me do that.”

Clint can’t smother a laugh in time. “Gallant?” he asks. “That’s not a word real people use, Coulson.”

Phil tries to look indignant, but it’s ruined by the way he’s concentrating on driving and keeps forgetting to hold the expression in place. “It’s a real word I use,” he says, then laughs. “Or it’s a word I’ve never used until tonight. Possibly.”

Clint can feel a stupid smile stretching his cheeks. He can’t help it. Phil just makes him feel happier than he feels by himself, even now when his head is telling him that letting Phil drive him is the only way he’s going to get any sleep tonight, and his heart is begging him not to.

“Okay.” He sighs. “Only if you seriously don’t mind?”

“I seriously don’t mind,” Phil says, sounding happy. He takes a right onto the road that will take him to the highway, humming under his breath as he goes. Gallantry really does it for him, apparently.

***

They don't talk much on the ride. Well, Phil tries, but Clint's getting more anxious the closer they get to arriving, so he knows his responses aren't very good. After a while, Phil either gets the message or gets tired of holding a one-sided conversation, so they lapse into silence.

Clint misses Phil talking instantly. Now he's just stuck in his own head and his own thoughts, telling himself over and over that bringing Phil into this is the worst idea he's ever had.

The address the guy on the phone texted to Clint turns out not to be a bar, like Clint had suspected, but a residential house, in a pretty nice neighbourhood. Barney is a crumpled ball of flannel and blond hair in the doorway.

Clint curses and rolls out of the car without even waiting for Phil to stop.

"Idiot," he says, kneeling down in front of Barney. "The fuck are you doing out here? You'll get hypothermia."

Barney blinks slowly, eyes focusing on Clint's face very, very gradually. He reeks of whiskey. "Clint?" he mumbles. "Did Rex call you?"

"Someone called me," Clint snaps. "I don't know who. He didn't stop to introduce himself." Now that he's sure Barney hasn't frozen to death, Clint's back to being pissed. He stands up and folds his arms across his chest. "Can you get up?"

Barney waves a hand vaguely. "Sure?" he says, but it's definitely a question. He rolls onto his knees then makes a soft, pained sound like he's about to die. Or puke. Clint really hopes he isn't going to puke. There's no way Phil isn't watching them from the car. 

"Fuck," Clint swears softly then reaches down, gripping Barney by the forearms and levering him to his feet. He keeps his hand on Barney while Barney sways, finally getting, and mostly keeping, his feet under himself. "Come on."

"Whose car?" Barney asks, slumping against the hood. He sees Phil sitting in the driver's seat and frowns. "Who's that?" 

Clint ignores him and prods him along, bundling him into the back seat and climbing in to join Phil in the front again. "Barney, Phil. Phil, Barney," he says, not looking at either of them. "Can we go home, now?"

"It's, um, it's good to meet you," Phil says uncertainly. 

In answer, Barney belches, then mutters, "You too, I guess," because he's all about making the good impression, obviously.

Phil starts the car without another word, but before he can move off, Clint spots something propped up against the house. "Wait," he says. "Barney, dude, your bike. How are we gonna get that home?"

Barney's motorcycle is his pride and joy, but Clint's not dragging himself all the way up here again tomorrow to retrieve it. 

"Doesn't matter," Barney says, and slumps back against the upholstery. "Leave it."

"Seriously?" Clint asks. "Your bike?"

Barney goes from drunk to drunk-and-dejected in a second. "Not mine anymore," he says, then closes his eyes.

Clint twists around in his seat. He needs to see Barney face-to-face, not just watch him in the rearview mirror. "What?" he demands. "What did you _do_?"

Barney shrugs. "Lost it. Thought he was bluffing. He wasn't."

"You were gambling?" Clint can hear his voice hit a pitch he's not totally comfortable with, but he can't help it. Gambling, when they barely have enough money for groceries. "Are you actually insane in the head; what the hell?"

Phil, wisely, doesn't say a word. He does start to drive, though, probably wanting to get out of this situation as quick as he can. Clint feels bad about that, but that's buried under feeling furiously angry with Barney.

"Oh fuck you." Barney flips him off. 

"No, fuck you." Clint hisses it, like that'll somehow stop Phil from overhearing him. "You can't just... that's our money."

"My money," Barney says. "I earned it, I bet it. I was winning. I was doing real good. Then I lost the bike and I had to try to get it back." He sounds so pathetic, drunk and pleading and still belligerent. 

Clint turns back to face the road, closes his eyes. He can't do this tonight. He's too tired. He wants to ask how much Barney lost, how many more shifts they're both going to have to pick up to cover it, but he can't face it.

"Don't turn your damn back on me," Barney snaps. Obviously he doesn't care about having this fight in front of Phil. "What? You think I'm a screw up now?"

"No," Clint says quietly. He doesn't turn around.

"Maybe you'd be better off having this conversation in the morning?" Phil suggests. "When you're both less tired."

"Fuck you, who the fuck are you," Barney says, then punches Clint in the back of the shoulder. "Don't do that 'wow, I'm so much better than you' thing tonight, kid. I swear to god, I can't take it, right now."

"I'm not doing that," Clint says. He leans his elbow on the window frame and his head on his hand. His head hurts. His eyes hurt. He's not going to cry, but he thinks he'd probably feel way better if he did. Right now, all this tension's just banging around in his brain. He wants to turn around and lash out at Barney, but he'll regret it in the morning, so he just curls up and tries to become invisible.

Barney sighs and sinks down into his seat. Clint risks a glance up at the rearview mirror, sees Barney close his eyes. "I did this whole fucking thing for you," Barney says.

"What?" Clint asks, just as quiet.

"I can't afford to buy you a fucking Christmas present," Barney says, like it's the worst thing he's ever had to tell Clint. "It's December 23rd and I don't have the money to buy you anything."

Finally, Clint manages to turn, just enough to look at him. "I don't care about that," he says. He knows that his voice is too flat, that he needs to put some energy into it, if he wants Barney to believe him, but he doesn't have any energy left.

Barney doesn't say anything. He stares blankly out the window and ignores Clint. Clint doesn't have anything to say, either.

After a couple miles of awful, awkward silence, Phil reaches forward and flicks on the radio. He touches Clint's knee in passing, stroking then squeezing it. Clint wants to grab Phil's hand and apologise for dragging him into this, but he doesn't.

***

When they get home, Phil doesn’t linger. He doesn’t try to kiss Clint good night, or give him anything more than a tight, sad smile.

Clint knows that he would have reacted badly, if Phil had kissed him in front of Barney, but he’s still pissed about it. It’s nearly four in the morning; he’s pissed about everything.

“Clint,” Barney says through a yawn, stumbling up the stairs after Clint.

“Fuck off,” Clint tells him. Then amends it to, “Drink some water, then fuck off.”

Barney catches him by the wrist, stopping him from stomping into his bedroom and passing out like he wants to.

Clint flinches. He doesn’t mean to; he isn’t scared of Barney. But it’s late and it’s dark and Barney smells like alcohol and looks like their dad. The flinch just happens.

Barney lets go of him like Clint’s burned him, holding up his hands. “ _Clint_.”

“Can we just go to bed?” Clint asks. He brings a hand up and rubs at his face. “I’m so tired. I can’t do this.”

“No, come on.” Barney looks like he’s making a serious effort to stay on his feet. “Talk to me. I know I fucked up, but - ”

“I don’t care,” Clint tells him. It’s mostly not even a lie. He’s past caring. “I’m used to it. I just…” He hesitates, which means he knows he’s going to say this and says it anyway, which maybe makes him the worst brother in the world, “I just wish sometimes you’d left me in Iowa.”

Barney’s expression does something weird where he looks heartbroken for a second and then he looks hard. “Fuck you. What? Are you pissed at me because of the money or because I embarrassed you in front of your fancy friend?” 

“Yeah, you know what, yes,” Clint snaps. If Barney’s going to pick a fight, he’s going to get a fight. “I was having a really good night and you ruined it. That guy? His name’s Phil. He kissed me tonight. I was getting a nice thing and now I’ve lost it.”

“Kissed you?” Barney asks. He doesn’t sound surprised about Phil being a guy, not like Clint thought he might be. “That guy?”

Clint folds his arms. “Why not?”

“Nothing.” Barney shakes his head. “I’m too drunk for this. Go to bed.”

“I wanted to,” Clint mutters. “You wouldn’t let me.” He folded his arms so he’d look pissed, but now he lets them slide further around his body. There’s no sense in pretending he’s not hugging himself, when he totally is.

“Just.” Barney looks at him then looks away. He walks into the bathroom and locks the door behind himself without another word.

Clint stares blankly at the door for a minute then makes himself go into his bedroom, makes himself fall face down onto the bed, and finally lets this day end.

***

Clint wakes with his alarm at seven. His head’s pounding, and there’s a weird, gnawing feeling in his stomach, which he can’t explain, until he comes to a little more and remembers the fight with Barney.

He flops face down into the pillow again and groans. He needs to go to work, he knows he does. It’s Christmas Eve; his supervisor at the grocery store will be pissed if he misses his shift.

He can’t make himself do it.

He sends a quick, apologetic text, turns off his alarm, and pulls his pillow down over his head. Good decisions are for people who’ve had more than three hours’ sleep.

***

He’s half-aware when someone pushes his bedroom door open, and wakes up a little bit more when they stop by the bed and brush his hair back out of his eyes. Barney doesn’t do things like that.

Squinting, Clint makes out a blurry dark and light shape and sits up in a rush.

“Hey,” he says pulling his knees up to his chest and pressing his face into them, surreptitiously wiping the corners of his mouth.

“Hi,” says Phil, and frowns down at him. “It’s pretty late. Are you feeling okay?”

It’s probably not that late, but it is starting to get dark again so Phil kind of has a point. “Just tired,” Clint says, shrugging. “How’d you get in?” If Natasha gave Phil her key, Clint’s going to be a bit weirded out. Sure, it’s Phil, but that’s not the point.

“Your brother,” Phil says, sounding hesitant. “I think he also gave me the shovel talk?”

“What?” Clint covers his face with his hands. He needs to be more awake for this. “God. Sorry. I didn’t tell him anything… Well, anything much.”

Phil smiles, shaking his head. “I don’t mind what you told him,” he says. “I was just surprised. You seemed pretty against us meeting yesterday.”

Clint rubs his eyes. _Wake up_ , he tells himself. _He needs you to say words_. “Because of _him_. Not because of you. Fuck, Coulson, I’m not ashamed of you.” He bites his tongue, realising what he just implied about Barney. “I’m not… I’m not ashamed of him either. Fuck. I didn’t...”

Phil squeezes his shoulder. Clint knows it’s just supposed to be a quick, supportive thing, but he can’t help leaning into it. Phil’s chest is warm and solid, and his arms come up and wrap around Clint easily.

“Why are you here?” Clint asks into Phil’s sweatshirt. The fabric tickles his nose, but he’s not moving away until Phil asks him to.

“To see you,” Phil says into the top of his head. “You weren’t picking up your phone, so I wanted to check to make sure you were okay.”

Clint laughs, super embarrassed when it comes out sounding watery. He clutches the hem of Phil’s sweatshirt, wanting something to ground him.

“You and your brother,” Phil says, very slowly, very quietly. “You’re not really coping, are you?”

It’s instinct for Clint to push back against that, try to physically shove Phil away. Phil holds on. He brushes his hands up and down Clint’s back until Clint sighs and folds into him again.

“Fuck you,” Clint says, helpless.

Phil keeps his arms around Clint, but moves to sit down on the bed. It’s an awkward angle with Clint still sitting against the headboard and Phil on the edge of mattress, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I don’t mean that as an insult. You’re both very young to be trying to support yourselves.”

“Barney’s twenty-two,” Clint says, automatically. He used to think that meant Barney was an adult, that he’d know how to do everything that Clint still didn’t understand. He doesn’t think that anymore.

“Twenty-two, trying to raise a seventeen-year-old,” Phil says. “Gotta be tough.”

 _You should have seen him when he was eighteen, trying to raise a thirteen-year-old_ , Clint doesn’t say.

Phil takes Clint’s silence for what it is: defeated agreement. “Come on,” he says, instead of anything else about Barney. “You need some breakfast.”

“It’s the evening,” Clint argues, but he lets Phil bully him out of bed and into clothes. 

Before they leave the bedroom, Phil stops him, one hand on his waist. “Is it still okay for me to kiss you, today?” he asks. He’s smiling gently, like he hopes he knows what the answer’s going to be. 

“I guess,” Clint says, like he’s not leaning in for it. He licks his teeth quickly, hoping they aren’t too gummy from sleep. “If you want.”

“I always want,” Phil says, just before he kisses him. It’s closed mouth, which Clint is okay with, since morning breath is a thing even in the afternoons, but it makes Phil smile, and that makes Clint smile.

***

The kitchen’s empty when they get there. Barney’s keys and coat are missing, and Clint’s torn between feeling relieved that there won’t have to be another awkward conversation between Barney and Phil, and worried that Barney’s avoiding him.

“Your brother said he had to go to work,” Phil says, like he can read Clint’s mind. He looks at Clint out of the corner of his eye. “He also said that there are condoms in his night table, if we need them.”

Clint had been in a middle of drinking orange juice from the bottle. He sprays it everywhere.

“ _What_? Are you joking?”

Phil’s still smiling, like the whole thing is embarrassing but potentially hilarious. The whole thing is not hilarious; Clint doesn’t want Barney’s condoms, he can’t think of anything more likely to guarantee that he never gets it up again. Maybe that was Barney’s evil plan.

“I told him thank you, but we hadn’t even been out on a real date yet.”

It takes a second for the implication to sink in, but when it does, Clint finds himself feeling hot all over. “So if we had been on a real date…?” he asks.

Phil shrugs. He’s making sandwiches, though where he found the bread, let alone the filling, Clint’s got no clue. “I like you,” he says. “I’ve liked you for a while. I’m not sure if you like me, or if you just like that I distract you, but I’m prepared to put in the time it takes to convince you.”

He says it like it’s no big deal. Like he really would be happy to play the long game. It makes Clint take a minute, so he can actually answer rather than just tripping over words as they come spewing out.

“I really like you,” Clint says. He feels weird saying it while Phil’s chopping tomatoes, but at least it means Clint can make as many awkward faces as he needs to and Phil won’t know. “I’ve liked you since my first math class. You probably don’t remember? My calculator didn’t work and you loaned me yours, and then you hung around by my desk, just to see if I needed anything else.”

Phil smiles down at the sandwiches. “I remember.”

“That was the third time I’d started a new high school, and you made me feel like maybe this one was going to work out.” Clint finishes the orange juice, then fiddles with the little plastic ring around the neck. “So, I like you a lot. I do, I do also kind of like that you distract me, though? Is that okay?”

“That’s okay,” Phil says, after a beat where Clint think he’s going to say it’s not. “But you have to tell me if the distraction ever starts outweighing the liking.”

“It won’t,” Clint says quickly. He doesn’t have any doubts that he’d be happy with Phil forever, if Phil was happy with him. “I mean, you’re distracting _because_ I like you. I think? I think that’s how it works.”

He has to cross the kitchen, then. It takes three steps and then he’s pressed against Phil’s back, hands on his hips. Phil’s got narrow hips, and there isn’t much of a taper between them and his waist, but it’s still a snug place for Clint to fit his palms.

He leans his head on Phil’s shoulder, when Phil lets him, and watches through half-closed eyes.

“I like you,” he says again, because he does, and he likes Phil even more when they’re pressed close together like this.

“Good,” Phil says and touches the back of Clint’s hand with fingers that are just slightly damp from tomato juice.

***

“I was going to ask you if you wanted to go to the movies tonight,” Phil says, when they’ve both eaten their fill of sandwiches and Clint’s had almost the full pot of coffee. “But would you rather stay home?”

“What movie?” Clint asks, licking mayo off his fingers. He feels restless under his skin, and a movie sounds tempting. Phil winces, and Clint’s instantly suspicious. “Phil?”

“They’re playing a Christmas movie marathon,” he says. “It’s already started, but it goes on until midnight.”

“Christmas movies?” Clint asks, narrowing his eyes. “I hate Christmas.”

Phil holds up a finger, so Clint stops protesting just long enough to see what he has to say for himself. “I have a secret plan to make you like it. Don’t tell me it’s failed?”

Clint frowns. “What, the ice skating?” he asks. “I guess that was okay.”

Phil smiles, looking guilty. “And the eggnog and the party and the movies tonight…”

“Why?” Clint asks. “Why do you care if I hate Christmas? I’m not going to ask you to stop loving it.”

“I care if you’re unhappy,” Phil says, focusing on his plate rather than on Clint. “And bringing you a little Christmas cheer seemed like a tiny step toward making you happier.” He wrinkles his nose. “I know it won’t actually fix your problems, but I saw how you flinched when Stark talked about Malibu and I wanted to do something to help.”

“God,” Clint breathes, feeling kind of choked up. “Are you real? Did I slip and hit my head and dream you up?”

Phil’s cheeks turn pink, but he looks pleased. “I don’t think so?”

Clint shakes his head. He reaches across the table and grips Phil’s hand. “I _really_ like you.” He knows he keeps saying it, but it keeps getting more and more true.

“Clint,” Phil says, then turns Clint’s hand in his, stroking his thumb over Clint’s life line. 

“Okay,” Clint says quickly. “Yeah, let’s go to the movies.” He doesn’t know if it’ll make him any happier, but it won’t make him sadder and it’ll please Phil.

Phil lights up, smiling at him like he’s the best thing ever. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure.” He pulls on Phil’s hand, just enough that Phil leans across the table, then meets him in the middle for a kiss.

***

Christmas morning is the first sunny day they’ve had for weeks.

Clint rolls out of bed, has a shower, and maybe kind of whistles a bit when he heads downstairs for breakfast. He’s not Ebenezer Scrooge, he hasn’t suddenly embraced the spirit of Christmas; he’s just feeling pretty good today, that’s all. 

“There’s breakfast,” Barney calls before, Clint’s more than halfway down the stairs. “Also, coffee.”

“You made food?” Clint asks. He was out at the movies with Phil until late last night, so he and Barney haven’t seen each other since their argument. He feels awkward and sorry and doesn’t really know what to say, so if Barney wants to pretend it never happened, Clint is so down for that.

“I did.” Barney raises an eyebrow. “Well. I, um, I reheated cold pizza, but you like that, right?”

“I love that,” Clint agrees. Reheated pizza is his favourite type of pizza. And pizza is his favourite type of food. “Thanks.”

Barney shrugs. He fills a mug of coffee and shoves it across the table at Clint, then follows it up with a pile of pizza slices. “Merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his eyebrows like he’s being sarcastic.

“Yeah, same to you,” Clint says in the same way. He doesn’t know if Barney means it, but he does. He grabs a slice of pizza and wolfs it down. Mmm, pizza.

Barney lets him get through three slices, then he puts his own half-eaten slice back down on his plate. “I spoke to your old social worker,” he says quietly. “In Iowa.”

Clint’s heart stops. The pizza he just swallowed turns to tar and slides slowly down his throat to drop into his stomach like a heavy weight. “Why?”

Barney looks at him steadily. He’s tapping his fingertips on the tabletop, like he’s nervous, but he doesn’t _sound_ nervous. “We need some help,” he says. “She put me in touch with someone in the city and - ”

“No,” Clint begs. He shoves his plate aside and tries to reach Barney’s arm, tries to shake some sense into him but Barney leans back in his chair, out of Clint’s reach. “ _No_. They’ll take me away.”

“Thought you wouldn’t mind that?” Barney says.

Clint’s eyes sting. He rubs the base of his nose and tries to breathe steady. “ _Barney_.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Barney waves him off but his eyes have gone softer. “They’re not gonna take you away. I’m not starving you or beating you or anything. You’re pretty much okay, right?”

“Right,” Clint promises. “I am, I swear. I’m sorry I said that bullshit the other night, but I don’t want - ” He doesn’t want to leave Barney. Barney’s his family and Clint knows how hard he’s trying.

“We just need some help,” Barney says again. “The lady I spoke to was real nice. She said they could help us.”

Clint swallows hard, nods. He can’t decide if he’s terrified or kind of relieved. It would be so great to have someone helping them out, giving them a little support.

“Clint, come on, stop looking like that.” Barney kicks him under the table. “Your world’s not ending.” 

“Right, no,” Clint agrees. He manages to dredge up a smile but, for some reason, it makes Barney sigh at him.

“You’re a good kid,” Barney says, looking like he’d rather walk over coals than talk about this. “I don’t regret for a second taking you in.” He grins. “Well, maybe for a second. Like, that time you broke the TV with your bow? Or all the fucking parent-teacher conferences. And this new thing where you’re apparently into guys and how it means I have to buy another damn parenting book. But otherwise, we’re good.”

“A parenting book?” Clint asks, distracted from worrying. “You don’t have any of those.”

“I don’t…” Barney stops, mouth open, and holds up a hand. “Come with me.” 

He grabs Clint by the wrist, and drags him away from the table and all the way up to his bedroom.

“Barney, what?” Clint asks, but Barney just shushes him.

He drops down onto his knees on the carpet, and pulls a box out from under the bed. On top, are a handful of books, all with bright colours and titles like _Parenting Teenagers 101_ and _Teen-Proofing_ on the covers. “See?”

Clint knows that it’s supposed to be funny, that Barney’s trying to make him laugh, but his throat fills up with something slick and he has to swallow hard. 

“You bought all those?” he asks.

Barney shrugs, looking a little embarrassed now. “I hit up Amazon when you came to live with me. I wanted to do good, you know?”

“You have,” Clint says quickly. It’s honest and mostly true, which are two things they don’t say to each other very often. “You’ve done real good.”

Barney rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says. Then he reaches out and ruffles Clint’s hair.

***

They spend the day watching TV on Clint’s laptop. Barney has incorrect opinions about _Dog Cops_ but Clint lets that slide.

Then Clint lines up _Spartacus_ , and Barney glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “This kind of thing turn you on?” he asks, nodding at the shiny, half-naked dude on the screen.

Clint splutters, because what? Brothers aren’t supposed to ask that shit. “No!” he says automatically. “What?”

Barney shrugs. “That Coulson kid kissed you, right? And he took you out last night.”

Oh. Apparently they’re having this conversation. “Yeah.” Clint picks at a hangnail. They’ve been having a good afternoon; he hopes he’s not about to fuck that up. “Yeah, I like him a lot.”

Weirdly, Barney smiles. “He a good guy?”

“Yes,” Clint says, too quick. He only realises how hard he’s nodding when his neck clicks. “Yeah, he’s great. You’d like him.” 

Barney might not like Phil; Phil has this _look_ he gives people when they’re not being as efficient as he thinks they should be. Clint would kind of like them to like each other, though.

“I already like him,” Barney says. “He came over yesterday morning all worried about you and was totally and creepily polite to me. Then I told him sorry for being wasted when he drove us home, and he told me not to do it again, because you deserved better.”

“Oh my god,” Clint groans, covering his face. He can totally imagine Phil doing that. Phil is a forty-year-old schoolteacher trapped in a seventeen-year-old’s body. “And now you like him?”

“And now I like him,” Barney agrees. He nudges Clint. “So do you. You should see your fucking face. You’re all… glowing.”

“Shut _up_ , I am not,” Clint protests.

Barney just laughs. “ _Glowing_. Hey, that Chinese place down the block’s open today. Want to order takeout before we start your naked gladiators show?”

“Can we afford takeout?” Clint asks, turning to frown at Barney.

Barney goes a little tight around the mouth, but, “Yes,” he says firmly. “It’s Christmas Day. We’re splurging.” He grabs the menu from where they always leave it on the coffee table and throws it at Clint. “Make the call.”

So Clint gets his phone out and can’t hide his grin when he finds a message from Phil waiting for him. 

_Merry Christmas x Are you free today at all?_

“You can go see him, if you want,” says Barney, who’s apparently reading over Clint’s shoulder. 

“No.” Clint shakes his head. “We’re having takeout.”

 _Later?_ he sends to Phil. 

_Later’s good. Parents and sister will be gone from 10..._

Clint tips his phone away quickly so Barney won’t see. _I’ll be there at 10:05,_ he sends. Then he has to order dinner and watch TV with Barney, while half-hard with anticipation.

***

Clint knocks on Phil’s door at 10:07 that night. He’s got two cups of hot chocolate in his left hand, and a plastic bag hanging from his wrist. He feels kind of stupid about both, but Phil opens the door before he can lob them over the fence into next door’s front yard and pretend it never happened.

“Hi,” Phil says, stepping out onto the front step and kissing the corner of Clint’s mouth. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks, um.” Clint’s kind of flustered. Who kisses the _corner_ of your mouth? That’s the sort of thing people in long term relationships do, not people who’ve only been kissing at all for a couple of days.

“Is one of those for me?” Phil asks. He nods at the cups, looking amused.

“Yes.” Clint thrusts it at him and doesn’t mention the bag because he’s not sure he’s going to go through with that. “It’s just hot chocolate. I thought maybe that’d fit with your whole Christmas-y theme.”

“It fits perfectly,” Phil says, leading him into the house. “Where did you find a Starbucks that’s open tonight?”

Clint winces. “I didn’t? It’s from one of those one of those convenience store Starbucks stands. It’s probably gross. Look, just throw it away.”

“Absolutely not,” Phil says, like that’s a shocking suggestion. “Come on.” He heads to where Clint knows his kitchen is, and opens one of the cupboards. “Baileys?”

“Sure.” Clint pops the lid off his cup and holds it out. It’s still steaming hot because he went to the nearest open stands and then maybe ran a little.

Phil pours in a shot of Baileys, then does the same to his own. When he’s done, he takes a long sip and hums, sounding happy. “That’s delicious. Thank you.”

“I think you made it drinkable,” Clint says, but he slides into Phil’s space anyway, touching the front of his fuzzy black sweatshirt. “I like this. It looks warm.”

“My grandfather bought it for me,” Phil says. “Which probably means my mom bought it, but either way, it was a gift so I’m wearing it.”

“Can I say something about how it’d look even better on my bedroom floor?” Clint asks, grinning when Phil blushes and laughs.

“You could try,” Phil offers. “But that would be something Stark would say and I’m honour bound never to make out with boys who remind me of Stark.”

“Probably wise,” Clint says. He leans in, kissing Phil softly, the same way Phil kissed him. “Thanks for inviting me over.”

Phil’s, “You’re welcome,” gets mostly lost in a hum against Clint’s mouth. He slides his hands up Clint’s arms, then stops. “You’re still wearing your coat. Shit. I’m not being a very good host.”

“You’re being a great host,” Clint says. “I’ve had alcohol and kisses. That’s all I need.”

Phil rolls his eyes at him and starts to unbutton his coat for him. Clint wouldn’t have thought that’d be particularly hot, but he would have been wrong. His body jumps every time Phil’s fingers brush it, even though it’s through layers of clothes.

“Better,” Phil says, leaving Clint to shake his arms out of the sleeves and hang his coat over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Are you going to tell me what’s in the bag?”

Clint looks up, wincing. Phil’s looking at the bag that’s now sitting on his counter. He looks interested, but he’s not digging through it, because he respects Clint’s space and other things like that, Clint’s pretty sure.

“That’s uh, that’s for you?” Clint says. He wishes he hadn’t had this bright idea. He could totally have turned up without a gift; Phil wouldn’t have minded. “It’s dumb. Like, really dumb, and I’m sorry in advance.”

Phil smiles, ducking his head like he’s shy. Phil is definitely not shy. “Can I look?”

“Yeah.” Clint waves him on, wanting to hide in the collar of his sweatshirt, but telling himself to be an adult instead. “Go for it.”

Phil picks up the bag and brings it over to Clint, leaning beside him while he opens it and pulls out a CD in a slightly battered case. The case is this weird metallic gold colour, because that was all they’d had at home. 

“A mixtape?” Phil asks, mouth turning up into a smile that could be mocking, that hell, probably _is_ mocking.

“I said it’s dumb,” Clint says defensively. “I just… I was thinking about your whole plan to make me like Christmas, and I seriously hate Christmas songs, but there are some that aren’t too terrible that you might not have heard, so…”

Phil holds the CD up. “ _Not So Sucky Christmas Songs_ ,” he reads. Then he laughs. It isn’t his usual quick, breathy chuckle, it’s an actual giggle, like something is really tickling him. “This is great.”

“It’s stupid,” Clint groans. “You can tell me it’s stupid. It’s okay. My feelings won’t be hurt.” His feelings might be hurt a little, but he does know it’s stupid.

“I love it,” Phil says, and puts his hand on the side of Clint’s neck. 

Clint shivers all the way down to his toes. “Your, uh, your family’s really gone out, right?”

“Really,” Phil agrees, and kisses him.

All their kisses up to now have been really sweet. Even the ones they swapped in Phil’s car after the movie last night. There was a little above-the-waist groping that time, but Phil was still the perfect gentleman.

Right now, he’s a perfect gentleman with a _mission_. His hands are strong on Clint’s back, pulling Clint closer and closer, until their chests are pressed together, which, for the record, Clint thinks is an awesome plan.

Clint kind of wants to wrap his arms around Phil’s neck, but that feels too schmaltzy, too needy, so he settles for pushing his hands under the hem of Phil’s sweatshirt and digging his fingertips into the skin by the base of Phil’s spine instead. 

Phil’s skin is warm and downy-soft there. A little higher up his back and it gets thinner, slicker, stretched across his spine. Clint can’t stop playing with the little knobs of his backbone, until Phil squirms and laughs into the kiss.

“Let’s go into the living room,” he says. “I didn’t invite you here to make out in the kitchen.”

“Why not?” Clint asks, but he’s not against moving somewhere more comfortable. He picks up both hot chocolates, and Phil, embarrassingly, carries the mix CD with him.

There’s an open fire in the fireplace, which until this moment, Clint had thought was just for show. 

“Are we about to be surrounded by woodland creatures?” Clint asks.

Phil huffs at him. “Stop being so cynical. My parents had it installed last winter; I think it’s nice.”

“Are you even allowed - ?” Clint starts, but Phil silences him with a hand over his mouth, which he quickly replaces with a kiss.

“Be quiet. Sit down. I’m going to put my mixtape on.” He keeps saying _mixtape_ like he’s really enjoying the fact that Clint had an embarrassing, eighties movie throwback moment. 

Clint contemplates sitting on the couch, but the fire does look really warm, despite his bitching, so he settles down beside it instead, just far enough away that his skin doesn’t get that prickly-burning feeling, but close enough that he warms all the way through immediately.

“Good idea.” Phil sits down next to him, kicking off his slippers, and wiggling bare toes in the firelight.

From the CD player, The Ramones’ _Merry Christmas (I Don’t Wanna Fight Tonight)_ starts to play, which relaxes Clint. Barney plays this song all the time. Especially in July, for some reason.

“Is this okay?” Phil asks. “Did you want to watch anything?”

Clint shakes his head. “I’m good. This is good.”

Phil glances at him sideways, lips turning up into a smile. “You look happier,” he says.

Clint shrugs, drops back onto his elbows so he doesn’t have to look at Phil being all pleased for him. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” Phil puts his hand on Clint’s leg, and a jolt passes all the way through Clint. He wishes he hadn’t lain down now; unless he’s prepared to pop right back up again like a jack-in-the-box, he’s too far away to move in for a kiss.

Luckily, Phil solves that problem by stretching out beside him, lying on his side so he’s facing Clint, and the orange-yellow light from the fire is turning his cheeks pink, making red strands stand out in his brown hair.

He leans in without saying anything else, kissing Clint softly then pulling back like he thinks Clint might have some sort of objection. The only thing Clint objects to is that the kiss stopped.

“You don’t have to keep checking up on me,” he says, as though he doesn’t really enjoy that about Phil, as though he doesn’t enjoy Phil treating him like he’s important.

“That might be a problem,” Phil admits. “I like looking at your face.”

“Shut up,” Clint groans, because really? He reaches up and threads his hands through Phil’s hair, twisting it around his fingers. He lies back slowly, tugging Phil down with him. 

Phil follows. He settles himself carefully,l but he doesn’t seem cautious about the actual position, leaning over Clint easily and kissing him with all kinds of enthusiasm.

On the radio, the song switches to Vienna Teng’s _Atheist Christmas Carol_ , which isn’t a sexy song, but is a slow one, peaceful, good for making out to. 

They kiss and kiss some more, getting more confident about it, until Phil twists their tongues together, sucking Clint’s back into his mouth, and Clint finds himself fucking moaning.

Phil pulls back, resting his forehead against Clint’s. “When I invited you over, I didn’t necessarily mean anything had to happen,” he says. His breath is hot against Clint’s face and he’s practically hoarse. It makes Clint want him to stop talking and go back to kissing. “I know I… I know I implied, but…”

“Take your shirt off,” Clint says. “That’ll be good.”

Phil sits up slightly. “Yeah?” he asks, smiling. “You understand that that’s the opposite of what I was just saying?”

“I know.” Clint shrugs, like he’s unconcerned, like his heart isn’t jackhammering in his chest. “I don’t think you invited me over to have your wicked way with me. And, if you did, I’m cool with that. I came, didn’t I?”

Phil raises one eyebrow. “Did you?”

“I meant I _came here_ , you asshole,” Clint complains, covering his face which is suddenly hot and probably red. “Now you have to take your shirt off to make up for that terrible joke.”

“That does seem fair,” Phil agrees, nodding. He sits up, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and then, after quirking a look at Clint and getting a nod, he strips off the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath, too.

“Fuck,” Clint says, totally without meaning to, and reaches up, hand landing on Phil’s collarbone, because he can’t decide where else to put it. “You know how I said yesterday that you were distracting? Consider me distracted.”

Phil looks a complicated mix of pleased and embarrassed. He lies back down at Clint’s side and slides one hand under Clint’s shirt, curling around his hip, and stroking his thumb up and down the line of Clint’s side.

“Want mine off too?” Clint asks, telling his hips firmly to stay where they are, no humping the air just because Phil’s touching him. 

“I do,” Phil says, but he pins Clint’s arm against his side before he can move. “But I want to do it myself.”

“That’s…” Should that be hot? That’s apparently really hot. “Yeah, okay.”

Phil slides up against him, half covering him to lean over and kiss him again. Clint rolls onto his back, letting his hands trace Phil’s chest while Phil kisses his neck, exploring with lips and a little bit of teeth.

“Okay, yeah, yeah that’s good.” Clint tips his head further to the side, letting out this awkward moaning sigh noise when Phil catches a sliver of skin between his teeth and works it with his tongue. “You can totally leave a mark.” It’ll be gone before school starts again, and Barney won’t care.

Phil shudders, skin flushing, and his left nipple hardening to a tighter little knot under Clint’s fingers. 

The skin Phil’s worrying feels hot and sore, pulsing with blood just under the skin by the time Phil releases it and starts to kiss and lick it gently instead. “Fuck, that feels so good.” Clint didn’t know he’d be vocal. He just really wants Phil to know how great this feels; how very much Clint’s loving it.

“I didn’t hurt you?” Phil asks, voice soft against the point of Clint’s jaw.

“You… It hurt, but I liked that?” Clint confesses. He slides one hand to the centre of Phil’s back, so Phil stays where he is, doesn’t look at Clint’s suddenly-blushing face.

But, “Okay,” is all Phil says. The kiss he gives Clint next is hot and slick and desperate. Clint wonders if giving Clint a hickey is what turned him on or if it was the fact that Clint liked it so much.

Clint’s hands gravitate to the front of Phil’s pants without his input. He hesitates at unpopping the buttons on Phil’s fly, but it’s easy enough to mould his hand against the shape of Phil’s cock, just rest his hand there.

Phil wrenches out of the kiss to suck in a long breath. His skin’s glistening from the fire, little damp patches along his hairline. He’s so gorgeous; Clint doesn’t know how he got this lucky.

“You, um, you were going to take my shirt off,” he points out.

Phil blinks, shaking his head as though he’d gotten lost in there for a second. “I was,” he agrees, then smirks a little wickedly.

He rises back up onto his knees, which puts way too much space and cool air between them, then settles back down between Clint’s legs, mouth on the place where Clint’s shirt has risen up a little, chin seriously, seriously close to Clint’s throbbing hard-on.

“Oh my god,” Clint breathes faintly, and palms the back of Phil’s head.

It’s easy to feel the shape of Phil’s smile against his stomach when he laughs. Then there’s a little nip of teeth next to Clint’s bellybutton and Clint’s brain short circuits. 

Phil works his way slowly up Clint’s chest, pushing and nosing Clint’s sweatshirt out of the way as he goes, tongue and lips drawing soft, wet lines over Clint’s belly and up his breastbone. 

Clint lifts his arms over his head when he’s told to and laughs when Phil detours to kiss his right armpit before guiding his arms out of the sleeves and throwing the sweatshirt away… somewhere. Anywhere. Clint isn’t really caring, by this point.

The room’s warm enough that Clint doesn’t mind being shirtless, but he still shivers when Phil settles over him, bare chest to bare chest, just because it feels amazing.

Clint’s dick is so hard that every rub of his jeans is getting painful. He bends one knee, drawing it up against Phil’s hip, trying to get some more room or some more pressure, but all that happens is that Phil slides into the gap he’s created, hip against Clint’s dick.

Clint twitches, harder than he means to, totally helpless. His dick jumps and he can feel pre-come twitching out of it. At least he hopes it’s pre-come, hopes he isn’t coming. He breathes and buries his face in Phil’s neck until he feels a little more under control.

“Okay?” Phil asks softly. “Did you - ?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nearly. Stop being so hot; I really don’t want to come in my pants.” He wonders if he should have said that more sexily. This whole thing where he feels really comfortable with Phil is weird; surely there should be more pretending he’s not riding a hair trigger, right now. That’s how it works in movies.

“If you do, I have a washing machine,” Phil says, which isn’t exactly _let me strip you out of your pants immediately, then_ , but is pretty practical and helpful.

“Your parents?” Clint asks. He’s not meeting Mr and Mrs Coulson for the first time while standing bare-assed in their laundry room.

“At my aunt’s house. They’ll be gone all night.” Phil’s hand drifts down Clint’s stomach, stroking the patchy strip of hair that’s recently sprung up under Clint’s bellybutton. It’s pretty new and sensitive, making Clint’s hips arch off the floor.

“Fuck.” Clint grabs Phil’s hand by the wrist. His skin feels tight, slick. “Please?”

“Can I touch you?” Phil asks, like he needs more permission than Clint fucking begging him for it.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Clint uses his grip on Phil’s wrist to nudge it toward the space where his pants are gapping away from his stomach. He doesn’t want to like, shove anyone’s hand down there, but if Phil wants to and is offering. Well.

Phil’s fingers fumble with the elastic of Clint’s boxers for a short, but frustrating, moment and then the backs of his fingers nudge the head of Clint’s dick.

That’s all Clint needs. The shock of Phil’s touch jolts through him, and everything coalesces in his belly all at once. He groans out loud and starts to come, shaking and twitching through the force of it.

“Sorry,” he croaks, when he’s done. He sinks back into the carpet and tries uncoordinatedly to wipe the come from Phil’s fingers. All that effort not to come in his pants and now his boxers are a gross mess.

“That’s not something you apologise for,” Phil says, leaning close and kissing Clint’s cheek, then his lips. “Okay?”

“Better than okay,” Clint says, blinking sleepily up at Phil. He can feel his smile come out soft and wonky, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching up and touching Phil’s mouth, trying to make him smile too. “Now I’m gonna have to use your washing machine.”

“That’s fine.” Phil moves into Clint’s touch, kissing his fingers. “It’s all part of my cunning plan to make you stay here longer.”

Clint laughs and shifts, wriggling to try to get the wet patch away from his dick. Then he thinks _fuck it_ and unzips his fly. “You’re not gonna faint if you see my cock, right?”

“I will definitely not do that,” Phil promises him. He helps Clint pulls his pants and underwear down and off, cupping Clint’s cock gently on the way.

Clint feels kind of bare and exposed now, lying on the carpet butt naked, but the look on Phil’s face makes it worth it. “Your turn?” 

“Yes.” Phil sounds kind of strangled, a little desperate. He pops the first button on his pants. “Let me just - ”

“Nope,” Clint says, feeling good and satisfied and wicked. He puts his hand back where it was before, cupping Phil through his pants. 

“No- nope?” Phil echoes. He rolls his hips forward, cock pushing into Clint’s hand and gasps. 

“I like you like this,” Clint tells him. “Do you think you can come like this? Can I make you come?”

“Jesus,” Phil mutters under his breath. He keeps fucking into Clint’s hand, like the fabric of his jeans isn’t even there. Clint tries moving his hand and then he tries squeezing.

He grins smugly when Phil freezes, cock twitching really obviously and his breath hissing out between his teeth. The fabric under Clint’s hand turns damp, a little sticky.

“There, now we match,” Clint says. He wants to say _god, you’re gorgeous_ or _holy fuck, I made you come_ , but they both sound dumb now that Phil’s probably listening to him, isn’t just focused on getting to his orgasm.

Phil makes a soft, disgruntled noise and kicks his clothes away before flopping down against Clint’s side, head pressed to the curve of Clint’s neck.

Clint wraps his arms around him, letting one hand trail down Phil’s back to rest against his ass, just because. Just because Phil’s naked and his ass looks really good in the firelight.

“I love you,” he whispers, but he makes sure it’s quiet enough that Phil probably won’t hear him.

***

Eventually, after a long, quiet time spent lazing in the firelight, Phil gets up, takes away both their clothes to shove into the washing machine, and comes back with a blanket and a tin of cookies.

Clint’s mixtape played itself out a while back, but Phil hits play again, doing a ridiculous little two-step dance across the room to _A New York Christmas_ by Rob Thomas.

“Dork,” Clint says affectionately, grinning when Phil wraps him in half the blanket then scoots in to wrap himself in the other half. The cookie tin gets opened and laid across their laps. 

“Do you have to go home tonight?” Phil asks, picking what looks like a sugar cookie and breaking it in two, offering half to Clint.

Clint lets their fingers brush when he takes it. “I should,” he says. “I mean, I guess I should?” He doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s got to be late. Barney’s never given him a curfew and he’s not going to care, but Clint doesn’t want to outstay his welcome.

“I’d like it if you stayed,” Phil says, in a rush. “But I understand if you can’t.”

“I’ll text my brother?” Clint offers. It’s as good as agreeing to stay, because Barney is going to tell him not to be so stupid as to try to make it home in the middle of the night. But he doesn’t tell Phil that yet; there needs to be some mystery left.

“I’d like that,” Phil says again. He nudges Clint’s face up and kisses him, sugar cookie crumbs and all. “So, points out of ten for this Christmas?”

“Eh, four?” Clint says, then laughs when Phil pokes him. “No, no, okay, seriously. It’s been…” He feels himself sober. “It’s been the best Christmas I can remember.” That’s not all because of Phil, it’s also due to him and Barney maybe, finally, getting their shit together, but it’s got a lot to do with Phil. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad,” is all Phil says, like he gets it. “Merry Christmas.”

“You too,” Clint whispers back, and leans his head on Phil’s shoulder. 

/End


End file.
